


Crowley And The Love Potion

by BipolarMolar



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Crush, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Neediness, Pining, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-11-16 14:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BipolarMolar/pseuds/BipolarMolar
Summary: Crowley has been acting very strange. Awkward. Affectionate. Infatuated? Rating to go up.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley was never one for talking on the phone for long. He would often drop by Aziraphale’s shop, now that they were freed from their allegiances and able to “fraternise” without fearing repercussions. Yes, Aziraphale would often be sat at his desk, dealing with some difficult customers or drinking a cup of tea while thumbing through the pages of his latest acquisition when he’d glance out of his shopfront window and see a familiar tousled auburn head. Social visits? Yes. Long telephone conversations where they didn’t really discuss anything? Hmm, no.

But perhaps Crowley had changed his mind, because, for the last week, he’d been calling Aziraphale every day. At random times of the day as well. And strangely enough, he’d never say anything of any substance. He’d seen a woman with an angel’s wings back tattoo walking in front of him and it had reminded him of Aziraphale. He’d had a dream last night about talking dogs. He’d been working on a new plant project but had missed the sound of Aziraphale’s voice.

That last one gave Aziraphale pause for thought. He was well aware that, throughout their friendship, Crowley had been the one with his foot on the accelerator, Aziraphale with his foot on the brakes. Such a statement, about missing Aziraphale, wasn’t too candid for somebody like Crowley. No, it wasn’t so much  _ what _ he said but  _ how _ he said it. There was a desperation in his voice that didn’t sound very Crowley...ish. But then, Crowley had made a joke about his plants and the moment had passed.

As if that wasn’t enough, Crowley wanted to talk for an excessively long amount of time. If it had been an uneventful day, Aziraphale would have little to say (and Crowley wasn’t much of a talker these days, preferring to listen) but Crowley claimed he was content just to hear Aziraphal’s breath over the line. “Just wanna know you’re there, angel,” he’d said lightly, but there was that undercurrent to it. 

Aziraphale felt strange about the whole matter, in an ironic way, he was getting what he wanted, but it was akin to a Faustian bargain and not what he wanted after all. A secret side of him had glowed when Crowley had finally convinced him to abandon thinking of them as working for different sides and instead, forming their own side, Our side. He liked the sound of that. Yes, hearing Crowley growl that, almost possessively, his eyes burning into Aziraphale’s. Something self-satisfied and smug in Aziraphale’s brain and perked up and preened at that. He wasn’t proud of that. The truth was, he’d been secretly looking forward to spending more time with Crowley, now that they’d averted the end of the world. But this wasn’t what he wanted. Because this Crowley, the Crowley on the phone who had nothing to say, and agreed to whatever Aziraphale said, and whose voice was dull and lacklustre, wasn’t his Crowley. He wondered if he was ill. No, that was...unlikely. Still, it couldn’t hurt to meet up and see if everything was tip-top.

Crowley had breathlessly agreed to meeting Aziraphale for lunch, sounding even less like himself than he ever had. He’d gabbled down the line about it being his treat and sounded almost tearful when Aziraphale had hesitated. In the end, the angel had accepted Crowley’s offer, and they arranged a date for two day’s time.   
  


* * *

Crowley had not stated a preference for where to eat, so Aziraphale chose a coffee shop in Mayfair he had visited once before. Even as he was approaching the curved cream walls, he could see a familiar spiky-headed figure sat on the outside seating, and his heart swelled. Crowley had a mug in front of him but he wasn’t drinking from it. This wasn’t unusual, but to Aziraphale’s concern, Crowley seemed oddly antsy, drumming his fingers on the table and casting anxious glances around, such quick jerks of the head that Aziraphale’s neck twinged in sympathy.

As he drew closer, Crowley must have sensed him, for he stood abruptly his chair scraping back and clattering to the ground, although he hardly seemed to notice. To say Crowley’s face lit up at the sight of the angel was an understatement. The eyes were wide, the eyebrows raised and the mouth open in an O of shock, and then an elated grin. It was the dazed look a new angel wore when they’d first been drawn into existence by the Lord. It was the wonder Aziraphale had felt, watching Adam and Eve putter about the Garden, two beautiful little creatures unaware of the legacy they would hold. It was...it wasn’t Crowley. He was beginning to feel a little concerned.

Nevertheless, some small sad part of him warmed at his friend’s joy. How often had he wished that Crowley would gaze at him the way lovers do?

He approached the table with some trepidation, and Crowley extended his arms, as if to hug him. Aziraphale took a hasty step back, inwardly chastising himself for doing so, ( _ Foolish coward!) _ but Crowley barely seemed to notice, preoccupied with attempting to pick up his chair without looking at it, but unwilling or unable to look away from Aziraphale’s face.

“You’re looking well, Crowley,” Aziraphale said evenly, wanting to help his friend with the chair but sensing it might be best to leave him to it. Finally, Crowley was seated, and he regarded the angel with a shrewd look, looking a little bit more like his usual self.

“Angel,” Crowley said, considering Aziraphale over his steepled fingers. “Is it me or have you always looked like a bloody supermodel?”   
  


Aziraphale sagged in his chair. Something was wrong with Crowley, alright.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is realising that something is very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the short chapter but I have been on hiatus for a while. My mother died in December and I've been dealing with all that. But she always supported my fanfiction, and writing makes me happy, so I'm going to keep writing for her!

There was definitely something wrong. You couldn’t spend eleven years raising a child with someone without gaining a vast knowledge about that person.

Aziraphale decided whatever it was, it wasn’t urgent, and he would work more efficiently on a full stomach, so he decided to eat before he tackled the elephant in the room. Although right now, he was so hungry, he could eat the aforementioned elephant, if it came down to it, tusks and all.

He decided on what to eat, and the first warning sign was Crowley’s reaction to the waiter. When the human approached them, notebook in hand, Crowley frowned. He could have been glaring but his glasses were so opaque, there truly was no way of knowing. Nonetheless, the hatred was pouring off him in waves.

Aziraphale ordered tea, tuna sandwiches and a cake, and when the waiter said “Good choice!”, Crowley gave a rather cruel laugh. Aziraphale was flustered, accidentally knocking the cutlery basket to the floor, and when he and the waiter both began to pick up the pieces, Crowley actually stood up, rushed over their side and not-too-gently pushed the waiter aside, insisting on helping Aziraphale clean up.

The waiter must have sensed Crowley’s dislike, anybody would, and he gingerly asked Crowley what he would like to order.

“Same as him,” Crowley snapped and the waiter fled.

“Well! There was no need for that!” Aziraphale rebuked him.

“He was unprofessional,”

“In what way?”

“He was ogling you,”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“No, what’s ridiculous is him eyefucking you when you’re trying to order,”   
“Now really, I did not come here to be insulted!”

“I’m not insulting you! Oh, angel, I’m so sorry, if I did anything to hurt you, please, angel, please don’t, I’m not - I’d never-”

Crowley babbled on, he actually sounded close to tears. Aziraphale felt seasick from the ephemeral mood swings.

“It’s alright, my dear. Just don’t do it again,”   
“I won’t, I won’t!”

And the rest of the meal passed peacefully. It was only when the bill was caught between Crowley’s slim fingers as he squinted down at the numbers (he’d insisted on paying and looked quite distraught when Aziraphale had attempted to contribute) that Aziraphale realised he didn’t want their time together to end so quickly. Oh, he would see him again, of course he would, their souls were bound, a bond forged through hardship and a mutual understanding. But now, Aziraphale sat, sated and full of food with that happy, tired feeling, like a cat lying in a sunbeam. And the sun was shining down on them, highlighting strands of Crowley’s hair, turning it into waves of molten copper. So, more for something to say rather than a desire to hear it, Aziraphale said: What have you been doing lately? Anything new in your life?”

Crowley stretched, his back making an audible crack. “Well...the flower patch. In my allotment.”   


“Your allotment? I...I didn’t know you had one.”   


“It was going to be a secret,” Crowley said unconcernedly. “I bought an allotment so I could make a flower garden. I don’t want flowers in the flat, they’ll flirt with my ferns. So, I’ve been planting roses and tulips, chrysanthemums. All sorts. In a plot I purchased. I don’t know what’s your favourite, so I’m planting everything.”   


Aziraphale was touched. “You’re planting flowers...for me?”

“Of course,” Crowley replied, his eyes bulging and unblinking, as if he couldn’t bear to stop staring at Aziraphale’s face, even for the second it took to moisten his sclera. “Because I love you. But I was digging the other day and I - I hit...something…” His eyes glazed over as he struggled to recall. “When I think of it, my head feels...strange. The bottle. In the dirt. Yeah, it was wine. Tasted weird though.”   
  


“ _ What? _ ”

Aziraphale got the story out of him.. Crowley had found a bottle, perfectly sealed and wrapped in cheesecloth, buried in the plot. And, in his infinite wisdom, he’d decided to open it and drink from it.

If he hadn’t been so worried, he would have been furious. How did Crowley not see how precious he was, how fragile his corporation was, not that they didn’t have the help of Hell or Heaven to restore them? “You must show me this bottle.”

* * *

An hour later, the angel was sitting at Crowley’s desk, turning over the strange glass bottle in his hands. It did sort of look like a wine bottle, except it had strange etchings (curling spirals and long, vine-shaped tendrils) on the glass. Unfortunately, it bore no label, so gave no clue to the name of the beverage or the company who produced it. He couldn’t detect any angelic (or demonic) energy off it, but that wasn’t surprising, considering it probably wasn’t made by one of them at all.

“This could be a potion,” Aziraphake said and flinched. Crowley was leaning over him and breathing down his neck. He resisted the urge to lean in, until the heat of his breath trickled down his nape. He couldn’t. Crowley needed his help. He tried to clear his head. “We could be dealing with the work of a witch...”

Crowley didn’t say anything that contributed to the conversation, he merely whistled the first few bars of “I’ve Put A Spell On You” and sniffed Aziraphale’s hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale slammed down the receiver of his little rotary phone and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t the telephone’s fault that it had given him bad news.

“I called that nice young lady, Anathema. She’s camping with her beau, what was his name, Newt? She won’t be back for a few days. She said! I don’t know what else to do! She appears to be very learned in magic, and while Adam Young is a fine young man, I’m not sure he would have the experience to help us. He is a child, after all. I simply don’t know what else to do but wait for her return.”

After their meal, Aziraphale had insisted on them returning to his bookshop. Crowley was thrilled with this suggestion and drove them. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure if it was wise for Crowley to be driving in his state (whatever state it was) but seeing as how  _ he _ couldn’t drive, and using a miracle seemed wasteful and physically taxing, he had reluctantly let Crowley drive them to the familiar shop. Even burdened with the knowledge that his friend was unwell, there as something innately reassuring about being driven by Crowley. Well, actually, there was something terrifying about being driven by Crowley because he had a tendency to speed, but besides that, he was so calm and confident when driving, and Aziraphale had always admired that. For some reason, Crowley wasn’t speeding today. If anything, he was driving slowly, humans in neighbouring cars were passing them as the Bentley sluggishly crawled along. A silly notion had struck Aziraphale, that perhaps Crowley was trying to postpone their parting, by driving as slowly as possible. No, probably not. But now they were here, in his shop, and he was scowling at the telephone as if had mocked him.

He’d been so sure that Anathema could help them and she had seemed sympathetic, but this was disappointing to say the least.

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon, Aziraphale clicked his fingers until they were sore, conjuring up any miracle he could think of to cure Crowley of whatever had happened to him. Crowley was the perfect patient, sitting on the Aziraphale’s desk, swinging his long legs back and forth like a child, his eyes widening whenever Aziraphale drew close. Aziraphale’s efforts were in vain, but Crowley didn’t seem disappointed. Aziraphale suspected he rather liked all the attention he was receiving.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I can’t quite work out what’s happened to you at the moment. But-” he gestured vaguely to the bookshelves and forced out a laugh. “If there’s an answer, it’ll be in one of these books.”

“Oh, but I thought you were going to examine me some more,” Crowley protested. Aziraphale had stuck a thermometer in between the demon’s teeth earlier but hadn’t known what was an appropriate reading, so now, Crowley was pushing it around his mouth with his tongue. There was something rather pleasing about the sight of Crowley’s lips playing with the thermometer, flashing sharp white teeth with every nudge of his tongue. “You haven’t even stripped me down. There could be all kinds of stuff going on down here,” he spread his legs invitingly.

Aziraphale swallowed. Damned demon, he had no right to look so...relaxed while Aziraphale worried and fussed over him! “Crowley, I think you should have a rest! I need to do some research,”

Crowley sighed, but he got to his feet, sauntering his way to the backroom. And if his hand brushed Aziraphale’s back as he passed, surely that was unintentional? “My clever angel. But there’s nothing wrong with me. I feel better than I have in a long time.”

Crowley napped on Aziraphale’s sofa while he read. It was a familiar set-up, but with an added tension. Aziraphale would check on Crowley every half-hour, take a glance at his friend’s sleeping form, just to check he was alright. Crowley had a habit of appearing dead when sleeping. Crowley usually looked quite comical, spread out on Aziraphale’s sofa, his long legs hanging off the arm of it, his feet dangling. But there he lay, contorted in a position that would have made Aziraphale’s bones ache if he’d attempted to mimic him. But now, the way his legs were spread wide seemed almost indecent. The way his head was thrown back, displaying that white throat, peppered with faintly-purpling stubble. He had no right to look so…

_ So what? _

Aziraphale sighed and pulled another book off the shelf.

* * *

By morning, he was no closer to figuring out what potion Crowley had imbibed, which was probably because he was struggling to pinpoint the symptoms. Crowley was acting odd, certainly, but not in a way that was easy to define.

_ Temperature? _ Normal-ish. Crowley always rang a little cooler than Aziraphale, possibly due to his serpentine biology.

_ Complexion?  _ Aziraphale’s eyes drifted down the jutting cheekbones and stubborn pointed chin of his sleeping companion. He was his normal colour. 

_ Temperament?  _ Ah, well, that was a complicated question. Crowley was as funny as usual, as caring, as intelligent, as witty...but he’d lost his confidence. Except when dealing with that  _ waiter.  _ Aziraphale’s cheeks burned in shame. There had been no need for that, had Crowley really thought their server had sinister intentions. But Crowley had said that the waiter was  _ eye-fucking _ him. Such a vulgar expression. Was Crowley...jealous?

He was jealous and petulant, but the biggest change was the quiet desperation, the neediness, the ever-present desire to please Aziraphale. The way he seemed distressed and frightened when Aziraphale attempted to give him space. As if on cue, Crowley twitched in his sleep, a frown forming on his forehead, his limbs thrashing madly. 

Aziraphale was at his side in an instant, placing a hand on his friend’s forehead, partly to calm him, partly to restrain him. Crowley calmed down immediately, and his eyelids fluttered open. 

“Angel?” Crowley croaked. Ordinarily, he would have jackknifed into a sitting position, thrown out some nonchalant response to reassure Aziraphale that yes, he was fine and Aziraphale should stop being such a worrywart. But instead, Crowley lay, patiently watching him, his brow sweaty beneath Aziraphale’s hand.

“You were flailing somewhat,” Aziraphale explained.

“Had a... bad dream,”

“Would you like to tell me about it? It might help you feel-”

Crowley started talking, in a rush, as if he wasn’t in control of his own tongue. “It was your trial. But it wasn’t me in your body, I was outside, I was watching, and they made you walk into the hellfire and your skin was melting and falling off and your eyes-” he broke off with a sob and Aziraphale’s heart convulsed in a sudden tug of sympathy. He was selfishly grateful that he never felt compelled to sleep, he was sure he’d have similar dreams about Crowley in the holy water.

“Your eyes, your beautiful eyes, angel, they, they popped in the heat and ran down your cheeks like - like tears,” he finished, his voice still husky from sleep.

“Oh Crowley, it was a dream, a silly, meaningless dream, I’m, look at me, I’m perfectly alright. Tip-top. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“I know, I know. I just thought they’d stop by now, it’s been how long since the trial…?”

“You’ve...dreamt this before?”

“Yeah,”

“Oh Crowley…” Aziraphale said again. He didn’t know what else to say. His hand slipped from Crowley’s forehead to curl in his hair, gently massaging his scalp with the tips of his fingers. A human had done that to him once before and he’d thought it felt lovely.

“I’m an idiot,” Crowley murmured but his voice had dropped a couple of octaves in relaxation. 

“You’re not an idiot,” Aziraphale said. “But you’re unwell. I plan to help you. You  _ need  _ to trust me,”

“I trust you, angel. With my life, my soul, doesn’t really matter ‘cause it’s all yours, anyway…”

  
Aziraphale didn’t reply and eventually, Crowley was lulled back to sleep by the soft hand in his hair.


End file.
